


tomorrow's me is dead

by kornevable



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Relationship Study, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 11:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kornevable/pseuds/kornevable
Summary: His sword tears through body after body while the world turns on its axis, and Felix watches, as nothing changes even if everything around him seems straight out of his nightmares.Felix, during and after the war, wishing and living and regretting—wandering without purpose.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Other(s), Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	tomorrow's me is dead

**Author's Note:**

> A character study about Felix post-Crimson Flower route; the Sylvix is important to the plot but it isn't the main focus. Beware of the tags, as this fic is canon compliant and will use the non-AM Sylvix end card!
> 
> Thank you [Nebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebbles) for betaing!

It hurts like a fucking bitch.

The broken remains of his sword lie scattered next to his palm, taunting his fingers by being one step out of reach. Those centimeters could be covered if he had the energy to extend his arm.

This isn’t how he expected to go, he thinks bitterly. But it’s not a scenario that he didn’t see coming either. He thought he’d at least have the dignity to die after dueling a worthy opponent—not like this, sprawled in the dirt with mud smeared on his face and his body pierced by cowards’ arrows. The fuckers didn’t even have the guts to face him properly.

He barely remembers what he was doing here before being ambushed. He should have picked up more faith magic. Ha. Probably wouldn’t have much effect, given how deep he buried this faith of his in the grave of his mind. 

Is it how _he_ felt, all those years ago? Lying in a rain-washed battlefield covered in blood, gazing up at the face of someone who looked down on him? Is it how he felt, alone and desperate and remorseful? There is so much to do. So much to see. And nothing to live for.

Felix closes his eyes.

* * *

People start talking about a better future, in the new world shaped by the end of the war. They all have an idea of the role they are going to play, up there at the head of an institution to be dismantled and reworked, or on the ground near those who suffered the most during the conflict. It’s all noble wishes—bettering themselves to build a world like how they imagined it, leaving a trace of their existence as if it mattered.

Felix has no wish. His life ends as soon as this army disperses.

Edelgard gives him a choice; she offers him a position of power and proposes to help Fraldarius recover some of its past glory, but he listens to none of her words. She doesn’t smile, nor does she frown. Her eyes are the clearest since the start of the war and her voice is, insanely, steadier than ever.

“You are making a mistake,” she says, as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“I’ve joined your army and your war by my own volition,” Felix snaps back. “And I decide what I’ll be doing from now on as well.”

Edelgard shakes her head.

“I cannot tell you what to do. I simply hope you know the consequences of your actions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I am well aware of the current state of the world I wish to rebuild. I am prepared to face all the struggles and hardships that await me.”

An unflinching gaze always turned towards a path she alone can envision—her steps are measured but sure, never straying from the road she set for herself, crossing with no hesitation all the bridges that could have collapsed under her feet.

“Throwing your life away after a war is foolish,” the Emperor states plainly. “But as I said, I cannot force you. Do not lose yourself, Felix.”

Felix snorts, ignoring the cold dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach, and he stalks away. Edelgard doesn’t stop him.

* * *

The faint smell of tea accompanies the soft footsteps approaching him. Immediately his eyes snap open and he bolts upright, and cries out when his midsection screams in pain. Two hands land on his shoulders to guide him back on the bed—a bed that’s not his, in a room he doesn’t recognize.

“You should know not to make such strenuous movements just after waking up,” the voice says, not unkindly but its edges are firm. “You never learn.”

Felix looks wildly around, unable to determine what weapon is within reach and whether he is in enemy territory. He brings up a hand to slap these foreign hands away, but completely freezes when he catches a glimpse of grey hair and gentle, tired eyes looking back at him.

“...Ashe?” Felix breathes, uncomprehending.

Ashe smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He slowly pushes on Felix’s shoulders so that Felix leans back on the bedframe, and he rearranges pillows and blankets around him, like this is the most natural thing to do.

The last time they saw each other, Fhirdiad was burning.

“Rest some more. You almost died,” Ashe says. “I thought you were gone for good.”

A long time ago, Ashe was a boy who couldn’t fathom the world’s cruelty, hiding his pain and moving forward in the hopes it will one day be kinder. People like him are said to be crushed by reality before their time, because their ideals and their dreams are incompatible with the way others are expecting them to live. The man who lived through the war and who is standing in front of Felix has been shaped by tragedy.

“I survived worse,” Felix answers belatedly.

This rips a sharp laugh out of Ashe’s throat.

“Oh I know. I remember shooting you multiple times and you kept getting up.”

There is no anger or resentment in his voice; simply exhaustion, resignation over something that happened in the past and can’t be changed. Ashe would have laughed at his own tactlessness, once upon a time.

Felix stays silent. His eyelids are growing heavy, briefly closing before he forces himself to remain alert and awake. This room is too bare and too plain to be of any danger to him, but he still doesn’t know where he is. Ashe’s presence doesn’t make it any more reassuring.

The cup of tea that was brought on the nightstand remains untouched. It’s an herbal blend that smells too sweet to Felix. Ashe, now sitting in a chair, makes no move to drink it or to offer it to Felix—it’s as if its mere presence should be enough to act as a calming spell.

“I understand that you don’t trust me, but believe me, I have no desire to harm you or turn you in,” Ashe says. “What would I have to gain?”

Felix exhales. His stomach rolls unpleasantly.

“Your reaction is way too calm,” Felix grits out.

“It’s been years since the war. Some of us started over in cities where our names and faces wouldn’t matter.”

Ashe pins him with a gaze made of steel. 

“Some of us started a new life.”

Felix feels sick. He feels the burn of Ashe’s eyes on his face, and has to turn away before he gets consumed entirely. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, suddenly drained from any energy to fight back. Ashe takes it in stride.

“If you can’t sleep, drink the tea.”

Ashe gets up from his creaking chair, and his soft footsteps disappear into the corridor. Felix is left staring at a moth-bitten wall, thinking that maybe he hasn’t gone through all the punishments life has in store for him yet.

* * *

The first job he accepted involved killing rich merchants who were getting all the attention and prevented other people from selling their goods. Felix didn’t have an opinion on this kind of method to get rid of contenders in desperate times—he’s a blade whose edge needs to be polished at all times and be used to preserve its quality. It’s quick work. Slipping past panicked men who haven’t seen a battlefield in their entire life should bring him shame, but he finds himself not caring at all—he’s been prepared to carry out tasks like these. His sword comes away red and dripping, unsatisfied.

Jobs are aplenty, in this supposed new world. Felix travels on foot and collects coin in a way that makes it look like he’s been chasing gold all his life. The blood soils his hands and his face, but never his mind; he’s still in full capacity of making the right decisions and not falling into traps that will lead him to his death.

Everything becomes easy, once you’ve fought in a war. People are crafty and greedy, but inexperienced—his targets are not warriors who learned how to survive under the weight of steel. Felix’s weapons are almost too brutal to use against these people, but his clients compliment his efficiency and his clean work. Sometimes the pay isn’t as good as he expected or outright demanded, but he’s making do. Everyone, after gruesome years of bloodshed, is left with rags on their backs and burdens on their shoulders.

His sword tears through body after body while the world turns on its axis, and Felix watches, as nothing changes even if everything around him seems straight out of his nightmares.

* * *

Ashe lives in a house in the rebuilt village of Remire. Felix doesn’t even remember going that far South, though it explains the increasing number of bandits as he traveled. Remire is still vulnerable to attacks and attracts people for all sorts of reasons—genuine help, pillage, morbid curiosity. The inhabitants are, according to Ashe, used to be a second thought in rebuilding projects and trade routes, despite being so close to Garreg Mach.

“Garreg Mach has no more power,” Felix sneers. “It’s an ordinary school now.”

“Yes, but some people still expected reparations from the institution since... well, the threat that destroyed the village came from there.”

Ashe shrugs. A chasm opens in Felix’s chest; seeing Ashe so uninvolved and dispassionate doesn’t sit right with him. He remembers never-ending cheer, encouraging words and a sense of justice that didn’t quite align with Felix’s, but burning with the belief it is right. Ashe has been drained from the light he was keeping close to his heart, and Felix isn’t naive enough to believe he had no part in it.

The room Felix is confined in is supposed to be the guest room, though Ashe doesn’t receive visitors often. It’s minimalist and serves no other purpose than sleeping in a bed—it’s too small for storage and too bare to think it’s taken care of regularly. The light streaming from the window on Felix’s right hits directly the bed, before moving to the desk on the far end of the room as the day progresses.

It’s quiet. It’s disturbingly quiet, since Felix has for sole company Ashe’s scarce rambling and the chirping of birds; no noises from the bustling of a tavern or the roaring laughter of mercenaries seeking their next job, or the murmuring gossip coming in as waves as he strolls through the city. Felix is lying in bed after a near-death experience and all he can think about is how unmovable everything is, in this village that’s seen horrors beyond imagination.

“I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow,” Felix decides. “I can’t stay here forever.”

Ashe deeply sighs.

“Felix, I know you’re a hardened mercenary now, but you’re going to get killed as soon as you hit the road. I’m no healer and the physician of the village did her best to patch you up, but you need rest. I’m not kicking you out.”

Felix eyes him suspiciously.

“I have no reason to believe I’m safe here, especially since I have no weapons to protect myself.”

“It’s your paranoia talking. You’ll only meet farmers and old war veterans wanting some peace and quiet here.”

Ashe looks like he wants to hit something or throttle someone, his eyebrows drawn together and his nose scrunched up as if in disdain.

“I’ll give you back your sword when I deem it reasonable,” he says, and Felix’s entire body comes alive with fury.

“I’m not above ransacking your house to find my sword and my other belongings,” Felix seethes.

“I’d like to see you try. Between you and me, I’m the stealthiest one, and you can’t beat me at my own game.”

There is almost a glint of amusement behind those green eyes, sparkling with satisfaction. Like this is a simple exchange between two friends who are being too rough on each other. Felix glares at Ashe, fists curling in the blanket, dearly wishing he had a dagger in hand to at least look more intimidating instead of the pathetic weakling he’s posing as. He hates this.

“Even if you managed to get out here, where would you go?” Ashe continues. “With your wounds, you’ll end up dead. Is that what you want?”

“Maybe, who knows?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can think them into existence. Silence strikes them like lightning, sharp and paralyzing, drowning the sound of their breaths and the hammering of their hearts. Felix pointedly looks away, cursing under his breath and ignoring the stare Ashe is most likely pinning him with.

“Felix,” Ashe whispers, almost defeated. “Do you—?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Felix snaps. “I’m a mercenary. Dying is a possibility with every job I take, I would be a fool to think it’s not without danger.”

“You know we’re talking about two different topics.”

And what if they are? Is there truly a difference between a mad man chasing the thrill of another reality, and a corpse continuing to fight as if nothing else is worth doing? The war ended a decade ago. And yet, there are still battles to be fought and demons to be hunted.

Felix’s entire body is screaming with an itch to do something, to keep going. Staying idle, even to recover strength, has never been an option for him—there’s always a stronger opponent to beat, a ghost to run away from. He cannot ignore either of them.

Ashe sighs. His next words sound less bitter, but more cutting.

“You’re more stubborn than I remember. One day, you won’t be lucky enough to escape the consequences of your reckless actions.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Felix turns his head and glares. Ashe shrugs; it’s as much a manifestation of his doubt as any vocal answers he’d give concerning Felix’s unconvincing statement.

* * *

Being on the road is less daunting than he imagined—though perhaps his skills and his clothes help greatly in gaining people’s trust in his abilities. Jobs are endless and he doesn’t need to eat much to function, so his money goes into repairing his weapons when the need arises. Sleeping outside or in someone’s farm in exchange for a service or two costs less than getting a room in an inn, and it also keeps him alert at all hours. It’s not like he’s been getting any restful sleep for the last five years.

He works better alone; he tried teaming up with other mercenaries for bigger prizes, but they slow him down or want to proceed in ways that don’t make sense. Felix has only ever relied on his blade, and that doesn’t change with the path he’s chosen after the war.

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” a mercenary asks, raising an eyebrow.

He looks older than Felix, shoulders filled with muscle built after years of swinging an axe. Felix doesn’t even look up from his dinner, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth.

“It’s pointless to think about “being lonely” when you’re a mercenary,” he replies.

“Work gets easier and less harrowing when you’re traveling with someone,” the second mercenary says, smiling mischievously. “If you know what I mean.”

He doesn’t. He looks at these two mercenaries who keep glancing at each other like they’re putting on a show for everyone to witness their disgusting romance, and thinks that people, at their core, are all the same. All so hung up on feelings better left discarded and on the chase of ephemeral happiness to fill some sort of void in their life.

“I don’t have time for sentimentality,” Felix mutters.

The second mercenary laughs.

“You have all the time in the world for anything.” She knocks back her ale and gestures to the tavern at large with her mug. “Everyone here is looking for a moment of respite in-between jobs. They’re looking forward to the next contract, or a nice bed, or a new weapon, or some juicy gossip. Maybe visit friends or family if they’re lucky. There’s always something to go back to.”

She fixes Felix with a look so intense she might as well have shot him with one of her arrows.

“Do you really have nothing to look forward to, when you finish a job?”

Felix stabs the meat on his plate with more force than necessary.

“I don’t,” he grits out. “Stop prying into my life.”

“Your life must be dull or very sad,” the first mercenary comments, almost chagrined. “Loneliness kills faster than a sword, you know.”

Felix is done. He doesn’t bother eating the remaining of his dinner before getting up, ignoring the pointed stares the mercenaries are giving him. His chair rattles against the floor but doesn’t topple.

“Your nauseating love story is also something you should worry about,” he growls, glaring at them. “You’ll get distracted by an insignificant detail during a battle and you’ll get killed.”

“Is this what happened to you?”

Felix pushes his chair farther back and stalks away. The sounds of his loud steps don’t cover those of his hammering, cold and dead heart.

* * *

Felix stays bedridden for three days with a stifling silence for company before he decides to get up. The injury is still sore and it pulls at his stomach whenever he’s making a careless movement, but at least he can walk. Ashe doesn’t stop him, though he watches him with a wary eye, as if he was afraid Felix would do something stupid. It feels kind of insulting.

Remire is a quiet village, where people are still recovering from the events that reduced their homes into dust. Felix doesn’t bother speaking to anyone, and nobody dares approach him, except for the healer; he will leave soon anyway. He will gather some supplies, check the itinerary to the nearest town, and resume his life.

“I became used to the slow pace of life here,” Ashe says as they walk towards what Felix assumes is the church. “There are bandits trying to loot us, but they’re easily taken care of.”

Felix doesn’t bring up all the weapons and arrows stored in a cabin in the backyard, nor does he point out the obvious presence of a worn out bow lying on the floor, near the entrance of the house. Ashe gives him that empty smile that means everything and nothing, a placeholder for an answer that doesn’t need clarification, and the memory of a similar smile on a different face makes Felix’s chest clench.

“Not all of them end up dead, though,” Ashe indicates. “The villagers don’t want to deal with the bodies, so we simply scare them away or injure them. We’re not bloodthirsty murderers.”

There is no need to comment on this statement. War is long behind Ashe, after all.

They don’t set foot inside the church; Ashe stops at the entrance, lifting his head to stare at it. Felix doesn’t know much about architecture, but even he can tell this is a rudimentary building only serving its primary purpose and nothing else—it looks big enough to accommodate a dozen believers, warm enough to draw in weary travelers. He watches people trickling in and out the church, greeting each other with the familiar ease of lifelong neighbors.

“I don’t think you believe in the Goddess anymore, or if you ever did,” Ashe says with a dry laugh.

“Even if I did, it wouldn’t have made a difference to who I am today,” Felix answers.

The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus breeds soldiers and encourages believers. Every noble was raised with the teachings of the Church in the early stages of education. Felix never cared much about religion, and after the events of the war, he’d be a hypocrite if he allotted time for praying to an entity he helped destroy.

Ashe dips his head, directing his gaze towards the ground now. His stiff posture doesn’t suggest he’s here to pray. Felix would have been surprised otherwise.

There is an old man wishing a woman a swift recovery after her accident; he joins his hands in prayer and isn’t ashamed at all to do so in plain sight. The woman thanks him and admits she’s more confident now that more people are blessing her with their wishes—that it will bring her good luck and accelerate her recovery.

It’s senseless. Felix and Ashe end up leaving the church without saying another word. It’s unclear what Ashe wanted to do by going to a place neither of them holds much affection for, but Felix supposes that it’s not worth mulling over.

It’s only when they get back in Ashe’s house that Felix realizes that truly nothing has changed, in a village that was rebuilt. It’s life at its simplest form—people gathering, sharing stories, and bearing their own personal pain. Praying to combat pain is a common and easy solution; it’s pitiful, that people can only rely on what they’ve ever known to continue living without losing their minds.

* * *

The first time Felix almost died in a ditch in the middle of nowhere, he wasn’t alone.

Luc and Bea, the mercenary couple he kept running into, are holding him together. Luc is pressing a massive fist into his chest to keep him from bleeding out while Bea channels the little faith magic she knows to help closing the injury. Felix truly doesn’t fucking care. All he can think about is the annoying voices telling him this is the fate that was waiting for him since the beginning, that he should have expected to eventually die like a rat chasing bigger prey. The voices are so loud but so unintelligible. He needs them gone.

When he closes his eyes just as Luc is screaming at him to stay strong a while longer, the only voice he hears is a low rumble accusing him of betrayal, sounding like a beast.

* * *

King Dimitri is slain by the Imperial army on the Tailtean Plains.

This is the story that circulates as soon as a red flag replaces the blue one. It’s not incorrect, but it’s not the truth either. Edelgard doesn’t bother giving the details of the victory, she simply declares Faerghus defeated and under their control. She doesn’t claim the honor of having ended Dimitri’s life, even when people believe it is her who plunged an axe through his chest.

The reality is even grimmer, taking the form of Felix retching on the muddy ground as the army leaves the plains for Fhirdiad. His fingers are digging into the soil but it does little to hide the trembling of his arms and to suppress the choked breaths leaving his throat. His sword lies abandoned next to him, sinking into the puddle of murky water, blood still dripping from the hilt.

A hand settles between his shoulder blades. Felix’s first reaction is to shrug it off, but it already takes all of his energy not to collapse and to bury himself under ground.

“You should have let me do it,” Sylvain says, not unkindly; but like everything he says, it’s coated with that awful hatred directed at nothing but himself. “It would have been easier.”

“Shut up,” Felix growls. “Shut the fuck up.”

He’s still heaving, blinking back the moisture formed in his eyes. His mouth tastes disgusting and his tongue is tied to the roof of his mouth, sitting useless and heavy while Sylvain keeps rubbing circles on his back, as if that will help fucking anything. Felix stares at the ground. The awful knot twisting his stomach threatens to empty its content once more, even though there is nothing left to throw up.

“They took his body,” Sylvain murmurs. “Probably to show it off at Fhirdiad or to put it on display at Enbarr.”

Sometimes, Felix wishes Sylvain would learn to keep his mouth shut. Words slip out of Sylvain’s lips like they have been chewed and spat out like poison, hurled at those who will listen without much consideration for how they will sound. Images of a blade running through pristine armor and coming away red flood Felix’s mind unbidden, making his vision swim and his nausea worsen. Felix tries to remain unaffected, but Sylvain is good at this—riling him up.

“You’re such an asshole,” Felix snarls.

Felix shoves Sylvain’s arm away and stands up. His feet catch on nothing and he almost falls back on his knees. Sylvain doesn’t help steadying him; he stays where he is, arm outstretched but knowing better than to reach out. The rain hitting their faces is unforgiving, blurring everything around them and bringing rivulets of blood to their feet. Felix wrenches his gaze away from the corpses of the countless soldiers who died in vain in this battle, and looks at the grey sky. Words stay lodged in his throat, even when he’s clawing at it and attempting to extract them by force, even when he’s growling and feeling an unknown rage filling every part of his body.

All that comes out is more strangled noises and a curse towards whoever willing to listen.

* * *

“I used to think about the reasons why someone would abandon their country, but I guess it’s no use trying to justify someone’s else actions when you don’t know the full context.”

Ashe sets a bowl of soup next to a plate of vegetables and small pieces of meat. Felix follows his movements until he sits down on the opposite chair at the table, and digs into his own food as if he didn’t just drop a truth that Felix himself sometimes still struggles to accept.

“Even if you did, someone’s feelings aren’t your own,” Felix says. “Empathizing with them would lead you nowhere.”

Felix stirs the content of his bowl with his spoon, watching it swirl.

“Is this how you survived all those years?” Ashe asks, something akin to sadness clinging to his voice. “Thinking that no matter how hard you try, someone’s feelings will never be yours to understand?”

“When we make a decision, we can’t go back,” Felix snaps. “It’s the same for everyone.”

Felix looks up from his dinner, unsurprised to see Ashe’s face changing into a tight expression that’s more reminiscent of their time as enemies than as allies.

“You decide to shoot me,” Felix continues. “I decide to get up because I don’t know what else to do. You keep attacking, I keep retaliating, because this is how we believe we should live our life. We can’t understand each other, even if we know the motives of our actions.”

Briskly, Felix pushes back his dinner and leans back into the chair. He can’t stomach food right now, his throat closing around air and giving him the distinct want to throw up.

“You’ve been trying to make me talk about my choices and my _feelings_ ,” Felix accuses, snarling.

“I let go of my rage a long time ago, Felix,” Ashe confesses. “I’m still angry, of course, at all the unfairness in the world, but being filled with unending anger isn’t how I want to live. Other people who fought in the war feel the same.”

Ashe glances at his weapons lying in plain sight in his living room, and smiles ruefully.

“We don’t forget. We live with the regrets and the pain, but we move forward. It’s unfortunately the only way to go.”

Felix fears who Ashe is talking about—people who survived the war are all people he doesn’t want to think about, who will try to subject him to a similar interrogation to get a grasp on his mind. There are times Felix is as much at a loss as them.

“You’ve always been brave, in a way,” Felix says in an ugly and small voice. “I’m not like you.”

Ashe laughs. “So you’ve said.”

* * *

Ashe gives him back his sword and his daggers another three days later. He doesn’t look happy to do so, but Felix’s restlessness and the ambient awkwardness must have gotten to him sooner than he expected.

“I’m the last person you’re going to listen to if I tell you to be careful,” Ashe says in the most light-hearted tone he’s used since the beginning of the week.

“The sentiment is appreciated, but unnecessary,” Felix replies with a shrug.

Ashe snorts, clearly exasperated, but he doesn’t add anything. Felix hefts the sword in his hand, immediately feeling tension leave his body as he’s holding the familiar weight of his only trusted companion for the last decade. He thumbs the hilt, where old specks of blood have dried and never washed off. He didn’t bother washing them off in the first place.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “I’m... glad you’re alive, Ashe.”

It’s not exactly surprise that morphs Ashe’s face into this strange expression. He looks more satisfied than shocked, at the very least, like Felix dropped long awaited news. Felix tries not to glare at the beginning of a smile pulling up Ashe’s lips, but his nerves-induced stillness hides none of his sudden desire to put an end to this conversation.

“It was good to see you too, Felix,” Ashe answers. “If you have the time, make a stop at Garreg Mach. Some people will be happy to know you’re still kicking.”

He’s giving him that knowing grin that feels plucked directly from a past long gone. A different type of warmth fills his chest, slow and comforting, and Felix can’t help but return a small smile of his own.

“Can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Ashe pats him on the shoulder and wishes him good luck. Up until now, he hasn’t brought up the topic of common friends and the possibility of meeting them, like he understood Felix didn’t want to be found.

* * *

When Fhirdiad was conquered, fire and ash and smoke were surrounding them. Buildings collapsed and civilians died. The knights of the Kingdom army fell one by one, unless the general agreed to surrender to spare the lives of their troops.

Felix doesn’t remember what he did, that day. He only remembers the burning of a city that was supposed to be his second home and the roar of a battle he breezed through. He never heard the victory cries from his allies, so lost in thought as he was, listening to nothing but his beating, numb heart.

The ghost of a touch lingers on his arm, even to this day. Sylvain, placing a gentle hand on his arm, trying to bring Felix back to the reality he refused to see. Felix’s eyes didn’t meet his.

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” Sylvain asks, but it’s phrased like a statement.

Felix never answered.

* * *

Felix could have ignored Ashe’s suggestion and gone straight to Adestria to look for a job. He could have avoided the trade roads and followed instead the less secure paths, but a part of him feels a magnetic pull toward a place familiar to him. His encounter with Ashe was an accident—it might be called a fortunate event, laid on his way for him to spiral down into memories he locked somewhere in his mind.

It turns out he couldn’t have escaped Garreg Mach anyway; some rich merchant hires him on the spot when claims of bandits hiding in shadows reach his ears, and the merchant can’t possibly lose his goods so close to one of the biggest markets the continent has to offer.

Felix sighs and accepts the job, because it’s well paid. Getting back into the fighting so soon after his injury sounds like a bad idea, but he’s always leaned towards making poor life choices. The merchant thanks him profusely.

The bandits do try to steal from the carts, driven by two youngsters working for the merchant. Felix isn’t surprised at all by their arrival, obvious as they are in their movements and position, but the merchant is yelling at him to protect the convoy.

“Stop screaming like a whimpering kid, they won’t touch your goods,” Felix grumbles.

His sword shines under the sunlight. It’s quick and effective, piercing bodies like they’re made of mud, never missing the mark. Felix’s feet carry him naturally among the chaos that is the limbs and weapon swinging of people who never stood a chance against him. From the eyes of an outsider, it almost looks like he’s toying with them—leading them from one side to another, redirecting their attacks towards each other before dealing the final blow that leaves behind a pile of corpses.

Felix doesn’t even break a sweat. He looks down at his blood-covered boots, thinking that they don’t look dirty and gruesome enough to qualify this fight as a good one. Little to no underhanded tactics, a mockery of a duel, and too much shouting. It’s a good pay but disappointing work.

“I hope you’re happy with the result,” Felix says.

“I’ll be happy when we reach Garreg Mach,” the merchant replies with a tremor in his voice. “Do something about the bodies.”

Sometimes Felix leaves the corpses for anyone to stumble upon. Taking care of every single one of them would be a waste of his time, when he’s already chasing every moment of thrill he can get. And other times, like now, he snaps his fingers and let the bodies burn in a fire that looks nothing like a funeral pyre. It smells awful, like charred meat and bad iron, a scent a lot more reminiscent of a war battlefield than a road in peace times.

“Done.”

It’s a mindless job. One objective with endless ways to attain it, but the result is the same. As long as he comes out alive, with a blade dripping with blood and eyes turned towards the next target, Felix is fine with it.

* * *

“You fight too recklessly, you know? Don’t throw yourself into the battle with only a pauldron as armor.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Hm, Petra does fight in less clothes than you.”

“I don’t want to hear you prattling about this army’s people like some dog in heat.”

“I’m just making an observation.”

Sitting so close to each other, isolated from the others, Sylvain wraps an arm around Felix’s waist. Felix lets him.

“You have to be careful, that’s all I’m saying,” Sylvain sighs. His voice is full of fake grievances. “I know I’m the best cavalier out there to come to your rescue every time, but it gets a bit tiring.”

“You’re one to talk. You get injured stupidly because you don’t pay attention to your surroundings.”

The smile that Sylvain casts him is controlled, almost terrifying in its perfect stillness. Felix is hypnotized by it, not because he wants to admire it but because a desire to smash it to pieces swells inside his stomach.

He doesn’t think. He hasn’t been able to think much outside of battle anyway, ever since they defeated the Leicester Alliance and started marching towards Faerghus. He’s made a decision he can’t retract.

Felix reaches for Sylvain’s face, tracing fingers along his jaw. Sylvain closes his eyes and leans into the touch and something shakes Felix at his core. It spurs him onward like a bolt of lightning as he claims Sylvain’s lips, reveling in the small noise of surprise he hears as he touches Sylvain’s cheeks, his hair and his neck. Kisses are always messy and clumsy when he’s the one who leads the dance, as if he couldn’t take anything as less than a challenge.

Sylvain shifts without ever breaking the kiss and he wraps both his hands around Felix’s waist, holding him tightly. It’s intoxicating, to let oneself be overcome by such urges that don’t make any sense. Felix simply wants. Sylvain gives.

* * *

Passing through the gates of what was once the monastery of the Church of Seiros brings Felix to a halt. The building itself remains untouched, towering over him and looking grand and regal in its architecture. The marketplace has grown bigger by two streets, extended beyond the old stone arch that used to be the main entrance of the monastery. Students and citizens alike browse the stalls leisurely amidst the brouhaha of vendors promoting their articles, customers haggling as much as they can and knights’ clanging armor as they patrol.

It’s like stepping into the past and having everything amplified.

“Thanks for the protection. Here’s your pay.”

The merchant hands him a sack of coin that Felix takes without a word. He opens it and counts every coin, only nodding to the merchant once he’s made sure it’s the right amount. The man and his entourage go deeper into the marketplace to set up their booth, and Felix is left standing in the middle of a crowd that’s become too loud, too alive for him.

He shakes his head—this is stupid. He should find something to eat and lodging for the night, and plan his next itinerary. Garreg Mach is connected to every main road of the continent and he can go anywhere—

“Felix?”

Felix’s feet freeze.

“That’s you, right? I would recognize your hair and your pinched face everywhere.” The voice gets closer with each step, before stopping right behind him. “Stop being a jerk and turn around.”

Felix doesn’t conceal the annoyance on his face as he looks back at Dorothea, who is smiling at him despite her clipped tone. She... looks well. Eyes gleaming with a quiet fire that is much brighter than the dull pain reflected in them during the war, shoulders free of the heavy weight of a weapon. She kept her hair long, too, swaying with the wind.

“Oh, even years of separation don’t make you happy to see me,” she teases. “Many men would be jealous of you for standing by my side, you know.”

“Does it look like I care?” Felix deadpans.

“No, I suppose it would be very concerning if you suddenly cared about popularity.”

He and Dorothea weren’t exactly friends. He tolerated her and accepted her attempts at friendship, but he wouldn’t say that they were close. She remains someone hard to read. Her smiles and her words light up her face, but Felix has always been guarded around her because of the charming personality she dons. He should be used to this kind of tactics, though.

“Well, don’t stand here. Come with me, you have some people to meet.”

She grabs his arm and doesn’t wait for his answer before dragging him all the way to the gates of the school, ignoring his grunting and his struggling. People stare at the weird duo they’re making, some of them gawking openly—at him or at Dorothea, Felix can’t tell.

The gatekeeper nods at Dorothea, letting her go through and not looking twice at Felix. She must be a familiar face around here, if people greet her and don’t blink twice at her display of friendliness towards someone who clearly doesn’t seem to belong here. Feeling like an object put on display for hungry eyes, Felix glares at anyone trying to study him.

The halls of Garreg Mach are still as elegant and well maintained as ever, with the same tapestry and the same colors adorning the walls. Perhaps some insignia of the Church of Seiros were removed, but Felix has never paid enough attention to them to know whether they were here in the first place. The chatter around them sweeps over them; the light coming through the doors creates a warm atmosphere that Felix would have never associated with this cold and historical place.

Garreg Mach is the same, and yet it’s different.

Dorothea is humming some song that Felix doesn’t recognize. The light spring in her steps carries her through the familiar path towards the professors’ room, and Felix has to duck his head several times when he thinks someone put a name on his face.

“The only warning I’m giving you is that there are at least two people who will be glad to see you,” Dorothea says with a smile, before opening the door.

Felix has no idea what he should do with this information.

As soon as the door opens, the scent of tea and coffee reaches Felix’s nose and suddenly a dozen pairs of eyes are settled on him. He doesn’t shrink on himself, but that’s a near thing.

Dorothea takes his arm and nudges him towards the back of the room, not offering more explanation. Felix’s breath catches.

“I have a surprise,” Dorothea announces.

“Oh, is it cake? I’ve been trying this new recipe but the result is awful every time—”

Felix drops his gaze on the ground just as Annette lifts hers, and for a tense, unbearable total of five seconds, he thinks he might just bolt.

Then, a chair rattles and topples, the air in the room changes and suddenly Felix is forced to look at Annette’s fiery gaze and angry face as she crowds into his space.

“Ten years, Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” she states in a low voice. “We haven’t seen or heard from you in ten years.”

“The last time you saw me, we were enemies,” Felix reminds her flatly, and it only fuels her fury even more.

“I’d still prefer knowing where you disappeared to!” she cries. “Sylvain is worried to death!”

Felix staggers back and nearly collides with Dorothea, putting as much distance between him and Annette as he can, and he bares his teeth.

“Is everyone friends now that the war is behind us? What the fuck?”

Annette shakes her head, unaware of the deep wound she reopened with only a few words.

“Better this than staying mad at each other forever,” she whispers.

Annette, defending Fhirdiad alongside Ashe and Gilbert and not backing down, is now a teacher at Garreg Mach. It sounds like a joke. She doesn’t look as haunted as Ashe, or as liberated as Dorothea, but Felix is still struck by the paralyzing thought she found a place in the new world she fought against so ardently.

The chasm in his chest that was opening since he met Ashe widens, slowly swallowing parts of Felix like a tribute to ghosts and wishes left behind.

“This is nonsense,” he mutters. “Utter bullshit.”

Felix racks a hand through his hair, sensing a hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. Annette’s eyes are still trained on him but he ignores her, pacing around the room like a caged animal. The other professors are staring at them openly, but he can’t find in himself to give a shit. It’s too late to hide anyway.

Dorothea’s hand lands on his shoulder and he immediately jerks away, glaring at her. She shrugs in a way that feels deliberate and voluntarily casual.

“Let’s have some tea,” she suggests. “You wouldn’t want to cause a scene here, right?”

In this small space, directly scrutinized by this green gaze and talked to like a terrified horse, Felix feels thrown back in simpler times, when everything was about killing and surviving, the future being a distant dream. Dorothea’s eyes are too piercing and not compassionate enough; she already knows what answer she’ll take.

Felix stomps out of the room.

* * *

It’s a perfunctory act, Felix thinks, as he yanks on Sylvain’s collar to kiss him like he will drown if he stops moving. There is no gracefulness in the way their lips move together, no sign of restraint in the jerky thrusts of their bodies against each other. It’s all muscle memory.

“Tomorrow,” Sylvain says, but whatever was about to leave his mouth gets swallowed by a groan.

Felix pulls at Sylvain’s hair and makes his head dip backwards, exposing the curve of Sylvain’s neck that’s become a usual sight for Felix. The bruises and the marks from the last time they spent the night together have already faded, leaving behind faint traces of what could have been anything. Something hot and unpleasant churns Felix’s stomach, and he makes his way from Sylvain’s jaw to his shoulder, kissing and biting the skin without ever loosening his grip on Sylvain’s hair, like he’s making a point.

There is a shuddering sigh leaving Sylvain’s lips. Felix has learned it’s a good sign, or something, so he keeps touching Sylvain where he knows it will ignite another spike of pleasure and a chase for more, always more, since all they can give each other is this pathetic display of physical dominance over a body that’s already been promised to a less enviable end.

Sylvain is better at pretending—at showing this is all for fun or for the greater purpose of relaxing, but Felix is no fool. It’s the same either way; they chose to do this out of necessity, like they’d relieve each other of a burden by accepting to reveal the weaknesses of their bodies. Not everyone feels the need to have their energy and the last remains of their thinking abilities sucked away by a brainless fuck.

And yet Felix is here, pinning Sylvain against a wall and subjecting him to his hands and his mouth and his everything, before receiving the same treatment until they both forget the world is still spinning and that their words won’t fix anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments appreciated <3 The second and final (hopefully) chapter will cover more of Felix and Sylvain's relationship.
> 
> / if you liked it you can retweet [the fic here](https://twitter.com/kornetable/status/1370492068057976834?s=20)!


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